[ear]

 

Music paints the scene when nothing is sung

I need no drums,

Just the steadily unsteady beat of my pulse

 

[heart]

 

Pumping turbulence through my blood vessels

Capillaries - like passages for packages

Addressed to my fingertips

Conducting a slight tingle

 

[hand]

 

I take those delivered scraps and try

To make sense of the miscellaneous

Newspaper clippings saturated with mod podge

Doodles of rose thorns fashioned into earrings

I sweep the fragments into something new

 

[mouth]

 

Pouring music like lemonade

Into glasses for myself.

It’s okay if I’m the only tester to taste.

These lemon splotched letters slide into papercuts

And burrow into those blood vessels

Delivered to my heart again,

Where a flower encircles like a crown

Waiting for this:

Final stage of the rain cycle.

 

[soul]

 

A little washed out.

Extended so as to pull myself onto

Little rock islands,

Made of paper mache,

Risking the papercut in exchange for salvation.

 

Learning that bitter lemonade is still lemonade,

And these collages

Are art.